


running down to the riptide

by bakubros



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beach, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Azula (Avatar) Redemption, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Teenage Drama, and you know what that's perfectly valid, but that's okay that's what character development is for, most of zuko's problems would be solved if he learned how to talk about them, sometimes You have to write the cheesy beach au you want in life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24831649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakubros/pseuds/bakubros
Summary: So if you look up “troubled youth” in the dictionary, you’re definitely running into an unflattering picture of the former-rich-kid-turned-disinherited-youth posterboy himself, Zuko. Sure, he’s bad at making decisions and only semi-good at trying his best, but what’s important here is that he’s ready (read: desperate) for a fresh start.There’s not really anything you could look up in the dictionary to perfectly capture Katara’s essence and, in all honesty, she’d prefer to keep it that way. If anyone had to pick a word to describe her though, it’d be “unforgettable.” Whether you like it or not.After thirteen years worth of childhood memories and six years of radio silence, no one’s really interested in Zuko’s crusade to expunge the last nineteen years of his life from the face of history—and those who are seem pretty determined not to let him have his way.ORZuko’s having some trouble finding himself, Katara’s determined not to let anything ruin the self she’s finally found, and everyone around them has their own shit to deal with because the big resort is threatening to buy out the rest of the island and that’s sort of more important than who’s buying who a Bang Sing Se at the rival shake shack.
Relationships: Azula & Katara (Avatar), Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Katara/Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar), minor Sokka/Suki - Relationship
Comments: 26
Kudos: 65





	1. a not-so-homey homecoming

There are a lot of things Zuko had planned to tell his uncle once he finally got off the plane. Among them were _Why did you make me wait?_ , and _I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me come here sooner_ , and _Do you know what it was like, Uncle, to wake up every day feeling like an outsider in my own home, feeling like I was never good enough and that I would never_ be _good enough?_ He wants to say all of these things and so many more, but when he exits the plane and actually _sees_ his uncle again—smiling that smile he used to smile, eyes twinkling with both affection and wisdom—Zuko says none of them. 

He walks to the older man, stares at him for a moment, and grips the strap of his duffel bag tighter.

“Uncle… I missed you.”

When Iroh’s lip twitches even higher and he pulls his nephew into a crushing embrace, Zuko doesn’t really hear the kindness of his words or the answers that have been repeated time and time again—he _feels_ them. And he thinks to himself that even if the past six years have been nothing but a waking nightmare, they were all worth it now that he’s back here where he belongs.

* * *

The sentimentality fades almost as soon as Zuko climbs into the near-ancient stationwagon and is welcomed by his uncle’s cringey old folk music; a part of him knows that he should be thankful that it’s minimized the necessity of conversation—it’s been so long that knowing just exactly what to say is harder than he’d like to admit, especially now that their initial reunion is over and done with—but Agni. These _songs_.

And so he rolls down the window and drapes himself over the recessed glass for a non-tinted view of the streets. The warm, island wind rustles his hair almost mercilessly, but Zuko finds he doesn’t really care. And when the humidity embraces him with the foggy familiarity of gassed up traffic accompanied by undertones of smoked meat and the unmistakable lethargy of the world around him, he can’t help but wonder how this town manages to be just as sleepy and crowded as it used to be. But it’s hard _not_ to sneak a relieved smile at that either. He can’t help but remember those summers all those years ago, when he used to hate the air and the smell and the general _feel_ of this place. Now it’s like a near-forgotten oasis.

The traffic only worsens before it gets better; they have to snake away from the rest of the resort traffic, towards the backroads the locals frequent—the ones with all the potholes but without the flashy signs, where the tropical fauna runs a little more rampant and the air smells a little more like sea breeze. But once they hit that point, it’s not long before they get back to Uncle’s place—which just so happens to be the apartment above the boardwalk shake-shack-tea-shop-youth-beach-cleanup-headquarters that he runs. 

There are a couple of things Zuko knows about it—its flaking green paint, its chalk-ridden tables and walls and ceilings—but it’s nice to finally _see_ the place in person after hearing all of the stories. It’s well into the afternoon by now, and even from the private parking in the back, there’s no mistaking that the place is just as busy as it’s sounded over the phone. He makes a note to walk through the place more thoroughly once they’ve shut down for the night, when things are quiet and solitary and empty. And _then_ he’d sit down at the counter and breathe it all in and prep himself for this new beginning, this new _start_. One step at a time. Slowly but surely.

Once they pull in and hop out, it’s Uncle that breaks the silence.

“I know that I told you my living arrangements were small,” he begins,” But I didn’t mean to suggest that you couldn’t bring _anything_ with you—you know that, right?”

For all the calm Zuko’s been trying to project, that small flicker of irritation is all it takes to set his ever-present self-consciousness aflame. “I didn’t _want_ to bring anything else,” he snaps, grabbing for his sole suitcase in Iroh’s hands. He hadn’t _meant_ for the words to sound as defensive as he is, but it’s practically the natural intonation of his voice at this point. His attempt to grab at the bag isn’t very successful—his uncle’s reflexes are as sharp as ever, after all—and that only makes his face redden all the more. “It’s not like any of that shit from back home is actually _worth_ anything anyway.”

“My nephew… You must surely be aware that just because your clothing wasn’t custom designed like your sister’s doesn’t mean they weren’t _worth_ anything.” Iroh turns to his nephew with a scrunch of his nose. “Please tell me that you at least _donated_ the rest of your designer wardrobe.”

If it’s possible, Zuko just flushes harder. That… That would’ve been a _much_ better idea than pettily watching that hideous dresser burn in the backyard of his father’s estate. But, well, what’s done is done, right? He runs a hand down his face in a flustered attempt to remove the scowl that was so quick to take hold of his features.

The grunt that escapes his throat is answer enough, and Iroh chooses to just shake his head before smoothly changing the subject. “It’s a nice day,” he remarks, and if Zuko was stressed about what to say and not say before, the fact that his uncle’s taken to discussing the _weather_ with him just makes him groan all the more. “A perfect day for our reunion, and an even better day to enjoy the beach.” He pulls the back door to his shop open—Zuko’s suitcase still in tow—jerking his head as a reminder for his nephew to follow him. “Perhaps the best way for you to ease your body and mind would be for you to enjoy the gift that nature has chosen to bestow on us all today. Better yet, send some messages to some of your old friends and ask to spend the day together—while spending time alone has its own merits, there’s nothing more rewarding than spending time with childhood friends after the passage of many years.”

This time it’s Zuko’s turn to scrunch up his nose in distaste as he continues to begrudgingly follow after his uncle. If there’s anything that Zuko knows for sure, it’s that he _definitely_ doesn’t want any of his old friends to know that he’s back. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d be completely homeless if he weren’t moving in with his uncle, he’d never want to see _anyone_ from his past ever again—that was the whole point of starting over, wasn’t it? This is as close as he’s going to get to a clean slate. And he’s going to do everything in his power to _keep_ that slate as clean as possible.

Not that his uncle needs to know any of that—he’s sure he wouldn’t approve.

So Zuko decides to bite his tongue for once, spotting the sole staircase and shouldering past his uncle to move towards it.

And because the universe evidently hates him but loves his uncle, the door from the shop area just so happens to burst open, and Zuko just so happens to run into the barista who’s carrying a tray full of semi-finished drinks that _just so happens_ to go flying and spraying milk tea and coconut shake all over the newcomer’s clothing. 

Fucking _perfect._

Zuko can only blink down at his shitty luck, and a heavy silence takes hold of the kitchen area of the establishment. Iroh’s half-expecting his nephew to _completely_ lose his temper at this point, but is pleasantly surprised when the brunet seems to be keeping his composure.

It’s only when the employee lets out a low whistle that Zuko looks up, and that barely-there restraint quickly morphs into absolute _mortification_. Because even though it’s been six years, there’s no mistaking that shaggy brown hair or those poor, overly-plucked eyebrows, or that fucking piece of straw that juts out of his mouth even when he’s apparently _working._

It’s Jet: that bossy asshole that used to think he ruled the beach, even when they were just preteens playing chicken on the summer shore. 

“I know I shouldn’t ask, but like… _Damn,_ that’s one hell of a scar.”

(If Iroh hadn’t charged himself with carrying his nephew’s things to be a good host, this would be the part where he facepalms himself.)

The scowl he had been trying to erase from his features comes back with full force as Zuko pivots to face his uncle, arms angrily gesticulating in the air and sending remnants of fruity beverages flying from his fingertips. “Of _all_ the people on this island, you had to hire _him_!?”

“Geez, Gramps, how did your asswipe of a nephew manage to get even _more_ aggravating once he grew up?”

“Don’t call him _Gramps_!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

There’s a retort on the tip of his tongue—an impulse that Zuko almost follows that tells him to remind Jet just _who_ he is, just who his _family_ is, how Jet’s basically going to have _him_ to answer to now, not just his uncle—but the brunet lets the words die in his throat. He reminds himself that none of that is necessarily true anyway, that relying on those hollow words is both counterproductive and a bad defense mechanism that never really worked, and then it hits him. 

He turns his focus back onto his uncle, eyes shining with realization. He keeps his gaze on Iroh all while addressing Jet.

“Wait. How did you even recognize me? After all these years and with the—”

_With the scar._

The other boy just rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Like _you_ didn’t recognize _me_ ,” he retorts. “Besides, if you really thought that a bad burn and a shitty haircut would be enough to deem yourself entirely unrecognizable, then I’ve got some bad news for you, buddy.”

Iroh’s face tells the rest of the story though: he had told him that he was returning. The muted surprise at his nephew’s reaction and the concern in the knitting of his eyebrows is more than enough to make _that_ clear. And if he had told Jet, then who else had he decided to tell?

Zuko’s chest rises and falls with the shallow breaths of his own frustration. But he says nothing in reply; simply snatches his things from his uncle, stomps up the stairs, and slams the door after him.

* * *

As soon as the door shuts and he throws his things onto the worn couch that’s now his bed, Zuko knows that he’s done the wrong thing. And that awareness is what makes everything feel ten times worse.

For the next few hours he just kind of sits there, struggling to figure out just what it is that he wants to say, just what it is _exactly_ that he feels, just. Anything.

The downstairs clamor of the shop downstairs doesn’t do much to help. And pretty soon the sun’s setting and then he can hear the patrons finally clearing out and what is _definitely_ Jet mumbling about how he’s not sorry for most of what he said, but he _is_ sorry for that comment about the scar. Not like it matters now, Zuko thinks. What’s said is said.

And then he hears his uncle shuffling up the stairs and he panics.

It’s near midnight when Zuko flings open the window, crawls out onto the rooftop, shimmies down a tree, and sprints as far away from his uncle’s shop as possible.

* * *

He ends up on the beach because of course he does.

His uncle hadn’t been lying when he mentioned that it was a beautiful day—even with the sun already set, there’s no denying the beauty of the clear sky and full moon above him. The water is cool to the touch when he stops on that sandy shore, a little out of breath and a little frustrated at how little sense he knows he’s making.

What had been his motivation for the past six years? Put up with his shitty father and finish high school so that he could return here, to this island, to the only man who’s ever properly loved him. 

What does he do when he finally achieves that goal? Realize he has no idea what it is that he’s doing, lose his temper for little to no reason at all, and then wallow in self-pity because—for some reason—people still remember who he is. Which is a _stupid_ reason to get upset, he knows, but it’s because it’s not _just_ that. It’s not _just_ because people remember who he is, it’s because their memory means that _he_ has to remember things too. He has to remember that things were different back then—that he had actually been _happy_ —and that all of those things in the past aren’t present anymore. He lost them and he can’t get them back. And that’s hard enough to deal with—six years and counting and he _still_ hasn’t exactly figured it out—but being back here and being forced to walk through the shadows of past smiles and laughs and games on the beach is so, _so_ much worse. 

So maybe Azula was _right_ when she said that coming back here was a stupid idea. If he didn’t want to be happy anymore, if he had _given up_ on being happy, then why go back to the only place where he had ever even experienced it? What was the point? Why had he even gone _through_ with this?

(Because it’s familiar. And because he’s not brave enough to throw himself out into the world by himself, completely helpless and completely vulnerable. Because he’s lost and he’s so desperately trying to find the way back home.)

Zuko feels more like a child than he has in a long time when he makes the decision to throw off his t-shirt and strip off his joggers so that he can wade into the water. It’s late enough and far away enough from the resort that the beach is entirely empty. Walking back into the ocean after so many years away from it is soothing in its own way, he thinks, even when nothing else is. 

He keeps his gaze on the moon above him as he immerses his body further and further into the near-black depths of the sea, allowing the gentle push and pull of the waves to embrace him in homecoming, allowing them to lick away at the doubt and trepidation that plague him—wondering if he had been allowed to come back sooner if maybe things wouldn’t have built up to the extent they have; if, maybe, floating here in this water with the moon above him and no one else in sight, he could have figured things out before they kept falling apart; if, maybe, something could have healed up before he became so utterly and pathetically scarred beyond repair.

It’s a sobering thought.

He’s shoulder-deep in the tide now, staring up at the moon for answers, for guidance, wondering when it was _exactly_ that his life had taken a turn for the worst. During his thirteenth birthday? Back when his mother had left? When he was first even _born_?

Zuko lets his eyes shut as he falls onto his back and lets himself just float alone in his memories.

They don’t open again until the water underneath him becomes a little more forceful, until it sweeps him away with such great force that when his eyes open again it’s with surprise, alarm, _fear_. He hurriedly tries to turn himself upright, just in time to see the shoreline fading more and more into the haze of the island, and that’s when his heart surges with panic.

 _A riptide_.

It’s like all the warnings and lessons he’s had on this topic have faded into complete obscurity. The protocol, the safety measures, _everything_ has been thrown completely out of the window as he flails his arms in his panic to swim back to the shore—which only makes keeping his head above water more difficult. 

Okay, so swimming against the current? Yeah, not his best idea. He’s never been a strong swimmer, and something tells him that even if he _was_ this wouldn’t be the tactic to keep on trying. But with the water pulling him further away from the shore, with the salt stinging at his eyes and the current threatening to pull him under, when it’s getting harder and harder to get fresh air into his lungs, harder and harder to _stay calm_ , what else is he supposed to do?

His body feels heavy and the brine burns as it goes up his nose.

The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is the moon shining bright above him; the last thing that he _feels_ are two warm hands taking hold of him in the dark, and the strong arms they belong to pulling him out of the current.

* * *

Zuko awakens to those warm hands still on his chest, but this time they’re pressing down on him in rhythmic pumps. When he opens his eyes, it’s no longer the moon that’s in his immediate line of sight, but a girl with eyes the color of moonlight itself. Her brows are drawn together in concerned determination, and at the realization that he’s regained consciousness, a look of pure relief takes hold of her features.

His mind is still cloudy and the world around him is still hazy, but there’s no denying the obvious: this girl just saved his life. And Agni knows that Zuko is _definitely_ not the most spiritual person out there, but he’s sure as hell second-guessing himself right now. Because if angels are real, then this girl is most certainly one of them.

That’s when the girl laughs, brushing the hair out of his face and playfully patting his cheek. With a start, Zuko realizes that he must have said some of that _out loud_ which. Wow, is _very_ embarrassing, maybe she should have just let him drown after all. 

(Her laugh is pretty though. There’s no denying that.)

“ _Very_ cute pick-up line, sir, but no.” It’s painfully obvious that she did _not_ think that the pick-up line was cute in the slightest but is just trying to be polite. And, well, that’s fine for Zuko because the comment wasn’t meant to be a pick-up line in the first place. So whatever. It’s _fine_.

(It’s not.)

The gentleness on her features all but vanishes as her brows knit together once more and her voice takes on a more stern tone. “You know, you _really_ shouldn’t be out swimming this late—especially when the forecast put out that warning earlier today on the high risks of rip currents. Thank La I just happened to spot you while I was out on my walk or—”

Zuko both hears her and doesn’t—he’s well-aware that he’s being lectured right now, but he’s still struggling to fully gather his bearings and he _really_ wishes that his angel-not-angel would give him some time to finish doing _that_ before expecting him to be fully tuned in on her speech about the dangers of swimming when there’s no lifeguard present. He almost wishes he could retract his accidental compliment, as though that would somehow make things even between them. The last time someone had switched between determined care to passionate rebuke so quickly with him was—

Oh.

The brunet lurches upwards into a sitting position, eyes wide with the fear of recognition as he struggles to get a better look at her face.

“Are you alright? Look, you shouldn’t be moving around so fast, give your body some time to—”

“Your name.”

“What?”

“Your _name_. What is it?”

She looks at him suspiciously, eyes shining bright in the darkness as she answers him. “I’m Katara.”

 _Fuck_.

Zuko feels his expression morph into one of absolute mortification. Because for Agni’s sake, of _all_ the people he had to run into, of _all_ the people who he had to call an angel and of _all_ the people who just _had_ to go out of their way to save his life, _of course_ it had to be her. As though his day couldn’t get any worse.

As he’s begun to learn, the universe just _really_ likes spitting in his face.

Before he can storm away and pray that Katara’ll forget this whole encounter even happened, the distrust in her eyes melts into some recognition of her own.

“Wait. Zuko…?”

Oh _fuck_ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm, so i know for a FACT that i can't be the only one rewatching atla on netflix and going through a fucking Time™️ reliving my whole entire childhood so. this is for all the other zutara lovers out there who are eager for some good old classic teen shenanigans set against the backdrop of a summer beach we all wish we were frolicking around right now. LMAO.
> 
> i'm thinking that this series won't be _too_ long, but i'm eager to introduce more about what these characters will be dealing with in this sort of setting, haha. comments and feedback are super appreciated, as always! <3


	2. reintroduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko and Katara have a lot of catching up to do. It’d be a lot easier if they could just. You know. _Talk things out,_ but even when they try, there’s more that goes unsaid than actually said. Typical.

With everything out in the open like this, Zuko’s half-expecting _Katara_ to be the one to storm away before he can. He wouldn’t blame her—she has every right with everything that’s happened between them and, hell, if he were in her shoes, he’d _definitely_ be stomping away with all the righteousness and validity in the world. Plus, she could actually _get away_ with doing it. Who is Zuko kidding, even if he _tried_ to run off right now, he’s more likely to catch a faceful of sand before managing much distance at all.

Thing is, Katara _doesn’t_ storm away.

No, she just continues to stare at him: a flurry of emotions dancing in the depths of her unblinking eyes, her lips slightly parted with disbelief, and a million thoughts left unspoken between them. 

“Yeah,” he finally manages in response—though it’s already kind of unnecessary at this point. Does his voice crack on that one syllable alone? Yeah, but for Zuko’s sake, we can all just pretend otherwise. “Hi, Katara.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, even when she’s finally gotten the acknowledgment he had assumed she was waiting for. And you know what, that’s somehow even _worse_ than having to watch her storm off because Zuko didn’t realize how deafening silence could be until now. Which, wow, is just _exactly_ the last thing he needed to really complete his day, you know?

“You’re only wearing boxers,” is what she chooses to follow up with, and Zuko has enough common sense to feel embarrassed as the brunette squints up and down the shoreline. “Is that your pile of clothes over there?”

“Probably,” he mutters, not bothering to look as he tries to stumble to his feet. He’s semi-successful in that feat, but only because Katara’s quick to support his weight. If all honesty though, Zuko’s less concerned with his own nudity and more concerned with the perceived… _Normality_ between them. As though nothing’s ever changed. As though they’d never stopped talking, as though things hadn’t been cut off so suddenly between them both, as though he’s just going to walk her home at the end of the night so that Sokka wouldn’t beat him up for “letting chivalry die” and then be back at their doorstep first thing in the morning like he used to… As though there’s no jagged scar marring half of his face, as though nothing had ever been wrong to begin with. 

This _has_ to be worse, right? Because it means that Katara’s just pretending right now and regardless if it's due to politeness or pity, all Zuko knows is that it upsets him in a whole different kind of way; it’s nothing like what he’s had to deal with from his father and his sister and just life _in general_ —not in the slightest—and it’s probably _that_ unfamiliarity, _that_ unwelcome newness, that makes this all feel so heavy, so unbearable.

The walk to his haphazard pile of clothes is a short one, and though Katara bends down to pick the fabric up for him, Zuko just falls back onto the sand in a new heap of his own. She makes a sound of mild annoyance, mumbling something incomprehensible just underneath her breath, before stating the obvious. “You didn’t bring a towel.”

“... I didn’t plan on swimming.”

Something flickers in her eyes—an observation of some sort, undoubtedly—but whatever it is, she chooses not to remark on it. Instead she takes a seat beside him, leaving an ample amount of distance between his warmth and hers. It’s only then that Zuko realizes she’s clad in a painfully familiar red uniform that’s soaked through with seawater, and he feels the uneasiness shift its hold from his mind and chest to the pit of his stomach instead.

“Do you have a change of clothes?”

She scoffs a little at that, averting her gaze from him and back onto the ocean. “Nope. I didn’t exactly _plan_ on leaping into the ocean to save a guy I haven’t seen in five years from drowning. Shocking, I know.”

 _Six_ , Zuko silently corrects. But out loud he just lowers his eyes and says, “I guess I should probably thank you.”

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to, Zuko,” she bites back, and Zuko’s almost thankful to be the recipient of her snark.

“Right,” he mumbles. “You can, uh, take my shirt if you want. It’s dry.”

“... I’m alright, thanks.”

“You’ll get sick.”

Another short laugh. “What are we, six? That’s just an old wives’ tale."

Zuko throws his sand-covered shirt at her anyway, ignoring her annoyed huff of protest and finally raising his gaze to shoot her a pointed look. He means for it to be taken as a command, but all it does is frustrate Katara even more.

She doesn’t make any moves to change her shirt and he chooses not to comment on it any further. But he pulls his joggers back on—ignoring the fact that the area around his ass is _very_ obviously wet now—and then sneaks a glance back at his silent companion. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise that Katara looks different from when he last saw her: her cheeks are a little less rounded, her eyes shine with a little less wonder, and her jaw is set in stubborn silence. She’s grown up a lot—obviously, puberty does that to you—but that realization makes something in him ache for the times when he’d stand as straight as possible next to her, back to back, and Sokka would stare at the two of them thoughtfully before shaking his head and saying, “Nope. Sorry, Zuko, but Katara is still _definitely_ taller.” She’s wearing red instead of blue too, and Zuko can’t help but think that the color doesn’t suit her. 

But there are some things that are still the same about Katara—she’s still the same person after all, underneath all the changes that have come with time. Like, the signature hair loopies. Those are still definitely a thing. And sure, the childlike gleam in her eyes has disappeared, but it doesn’t mean her eyes shine any less bright. When he looks a little closer, he can even make out that faded scar that sits just above her knee—he still remembers how panicked Sokka was when she had gotten it—and it doesn’t look like there are many more that were added. It’s nice to think that maybe she toned back on the reckless behavior, that she’s learned to be a little more careful with herself.

(It’s even nicer to think that maybe he didn’t miss out on more memories being made without him.)

“If you’re not going to say anything, then I don’t have to stay,” she murmurs. There’s a hard edge in the tone of her voice despite its hushed nature, and Zuko’s not even sure if she’s actually addressing him or if this is more of a reminder to herself. Either way, it does nothing to ameliorate the growing restlessness inside him. “You’re the one who left, Zuko. You’re the one who didn’t respond to any calls or messages or letters. That was _you_.”

It was and it wasn’t. But she doesn’t need to know that and he doesn’t need to tell her. So he hangs his head and tries not to think about how Katara hadn’t looked away from the moon when she spoke; tries not to think about what that simple action—inaction?—might possibly mean. 

“What happened to ‘not forcing me to do anything I don’t want to do’?” He finds himself biting back, getting all defensive on pure reflex alone even when he already knows that he’s in the wrong and she’s in the right. The regret begins to settle in just as soon as the words leave his lips, and though he bites his tongue now, it’s already far too late.

Katara whips her head back to face him once more, nostrils flaring with indignation and eyes coming alive with a vengeance. “Right, because I’ve _never_ forced you to do anything: I never forced you to stay and I never forced you to keep that promise on the beach and I never forced you to write or call or say anything _at all_ to me, and look at where we both are now. _Right?_ And even now, when I’m telling you that I’m more than happy to _leave_ if that’s what you want—never mind what _I_ want or what _I’ve_ been through—I’m _still_ trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and put your feelings above my own.”

It’s because her words are so true that they cut deeper than any blade. He’s already begun to dig his own grave though, so why stop now? His voice is thick with emotion he refuses to acknowledge as he says, “I didn’t _ask you_ to swim out and save me, Katara.”

When she pauses to let out an incredulous little laugh, the brunet feels himself sink deeper and deeper into the ground. And when she begins to speak again, her voice sounds tired. Resigned. “Yeah, you didn’t. But Zuko, regardless of all the things you did or didn’t do—regardless of what happened in our past and regardless of whether you actually wanted me to or not—I _still_ would’ve swum out to save you. And even though this reunion of ours is worse than anything I could’ve possibly imagined, I’d do it again and again without any hesitation. No questions asked.”

She shakes her head, looking all at once righteous and wise as she throws his shirt back at him. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, and yet. It does. “But you know what? It’s in the past now and the closure’s clearly not worth the stress. So if you want to pretend that this never happened, we can just agree to put this chapter of our lives to a complete close. And that would be _fine_. You just have to say the word and—”

“No, that’s not it. Not at all.”

The words leave his lips before he’s fully thought things through, and he doesn’t have to look up to know that they’ve triggered some kind of shift in the conversation—and he _definitely_ doesn’t know if he’s ready to deal with those repercussions or not. He can hear his heart pounding in his chest, can hear the gears in his mind desperately whirring as he tries to figure out what it is that he’s supposed to say right now to smooth everything over because talking… Talking has never been something that he’s been good at. For Agni’s sake, he’s dedicated the last month _exclusively_ to thinking about what he’d say to his uncle when they were finally reunited, but when the moment had come, nothing had come out. Nothing _good_ anyway. And now Katara was here—kind, caring, _trusting_ Katara, the same girl whose monthly letters went on for a whole year before coming to a sudden stop, who had called so often in that first week that his father had smashed his phone and changed his number—and if Zuko doesn’t say anything then she’ll be gone. _Really_ gone, _really_ out of his life.

It’s one thing when a goodbye is never actually said; it’s another when it’s said and you’re anything but ready.

“... Then what is?”

He doesn’t know. Not what she thinks?

“It’s complicated,” he tries, and the words come out more like a question of their own rather than an answer. When Katara scoffs and rises to her feet, Zuko scrambles to follow after her, reaching for her wrist before she can walk away. He’s able to get hold of her—just barely—and when Katara turns to face him once more, the restrained fury in her eyes is enough to make him quickly release his grip. Zuko goes so far as to put both of his hands up in sheepish defense, face burning with something akin to shame and regret as he continues. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—well, I guess I _did_ technically mean to—but I don’t have any intention of… Of crossing any boundaries. I’m sorry. Just. Just hear me out, okay?”

Her eyes are guarded when she looks at him again—fiery and suspicious and even impatient—and then there’s a moment—just a half-second, at most—where her expression softens into one of… Of pity. It might as well have been an imagined sentiment, however, because it’s not long before her defenses are back up and she’s averting her eyes and crossing her arms.

(But Zuko sees it. He always sees it: that hesitation, that curiosity, that yearning to ask but not wanting to be rude. He’s hyper-aware of looks like that now. They always tend to be focused on one side of his face over the other.)

“Yeah. Okay.”

He fidgets under the weight of her gaze, looking down at her feet and fumbling for the magic words that’ll make everything alright between them. Thing is, he doesn’t really know what _alright between them_ is meant to look like. He doesn’t know what he wants from Katara, or if Katara even wants anything to _do_ with him anymore—he just knows that he’s not ready for her to definitively be gone.

Not yet. Not like this.

“You’re right. You… You’ve always been a good person, Katara—even when people didn’t deserve it.” Especially when _I_ don’t deserve it. “And you deserve closure. You do. I just—” He hesitates, desperation and eagerness begging her to understand things that even _he_ doesn’t understand, despite it all being wrapped up in no one’s mind but his own. “Where do I start?” What do I say? What you do you _want me_ to say?

And he’s right: Katara has _always_ been kind. Patient. Even when the opposing party doesn’t deserve it. Despite the flurry of emotions still churning away in her heart, she supplies him some murmured assistance—spoken softly and with an averted gaze. “You and your family—the four of you used to come here every year all the time… Until one day you all left and never came back. It’s like you all disappeared entirely, but not really, since…” She manages a dark chuckle and then gestures at her polo.

His eyes had flickered back to hers when she had begun to speak, but once she draws his attention back to the shirt, he looks away with a scowl. “How could you just work for my father like that?”

Her temper almost flares up again at his tone. _Almost_. But she manages to wave it away with another sardonic laugh. “What, was I supposed to ask you for permission?” 

Zuko flinches and he isn’t entirely sure why. 

“It’s not like any of us have much of a choice when it comes to getting hired here. And honestly, I don’t really see the problem with it when—”

“You _know_ that he’s a shitty man, Katara. If you wanted a job that badly, there are still dozens of other places on the island that you could have gone for.” Blue eyes grow wide before they grow narrow. “You didn’t _have_ to apply at our resort and you don’t _have_ to be supporting what it is that he’s doing in any way, shape, or form—no matter how small you think that contribution is, it’s still a _contribution_ , and—”

And now the blue in her eyes takes on a different hue entirely as a sudden realization hits her. She rests a hand on his forearm to stop the words in his throat. “Zuko, did something… _Change_ between you and your dad…?”

All of the animation that had consumed Zuko’s body seems to fade away in an instant.

There’s a half-second pause—his heart stops beating and his body runs cold and suddenly the whole world around him bursts into a montage of memories, of all those things that he came here to forget, to _erase_ —and then he closes his eyes and jerks his arm away from her and the moment is over. It was such a small occurrence, something so quick and inconsequential that most people would just overlook it.

(But Katara’s not like most people. Even though it’s been _years_ since she last saw Zuko and there’s no denying that the Zuko she had known as a child is different from the young man in front of her now, she still recognizes the doubt, the hesitation, the _lack of confidence_ that plagued so many of their early interactions… Back when he still wasn’t sure what he could and couldn’t do, but was still so, _so_ eager to always do the “right” thing. Back when he was hot and cold and yes and no and every other little contradiction all in one because he didn’t know who he was or who he was allowed to be and was so, _so_ scared and hadn’t even realized it yet. Back when he was scared that _they’d_ push him away too.)

So Katara's not hurt when he pulls away from her. Just concerned.

Zuko’s heart may have stopped its beating before, but now it just doubles its own speed as he rushes to find something to say. “It doesn’t matter.” It does. “So that’s what I should talk about then: how my family hasn’t come to personally visit our business in a couple of years.” The words are hasty and forced, grit out through his clenched teeth. “Is that all?”

_No._

“Yes.”

Neither of them believe her. But Zuko can’t afford to question it. Not right now. “And the people around here… They haven’t. They haven’t talked about why? At all?”

Of course they have. It’s ignorant to think that such gossip _wouldn’t_ have run rampant—that it still _isn’t_ running rampant. The stories about secret love affairs and lawsuits and drug cover-ups and even straight up _murder_ have been whispered around the island ever since the family had first fled its shores under the cover of night all those years ago. Katara’s heard them all. And she was scared to think the worst when Zuko hadn’t even bothered to tell his closest friends _goodbye._

But she has a feeling that saying that aloud would just make whatever this was worse for them both, so she doesn’t.

“All of the employees were just told that there had been an incident back home,” she says with a noncommittal shrug. “That’s all any of us ever knew for certain.”

Zuko fidgets for a moment with the fabric of his pants. Swallows. “I see.”

Katara finally allows her gaze to meet his once more, to look back into his eyes with equal parts wisdom and curious patience. This man isn’t the boy he was before—he’s more broken and more pained and even _dishonest_ … Something had happened. For years, Katara’s let herself be carried away by daydreams and idling _what ifs_ about what might happen if they were ever able to see each other again—what might be said. In no corner of her imagination had she expected something like this. But if Katara’s anything, then she sure as hell is adaptable. 

“And so was it as simple as that?”

_No. Of course not._

“Yeah. It was.”

Neither of them believe the lie even when it’s spoken with all the conviction in the world—amber eyes meeting sapphire blue in the dark, _igniting._ Because actions speak louder than words, and even if the things they say aloud are blatant little lies, they’re also something else: a warm hand in the dark, the strength to bring someone back to shore, a quiet acknowledgment that neither of them are ready for this but they’re both aware of it—that it’ll take some time for this conversation to be held and so it’s over for now but that it’s okay. It’s a silent breath of understanding: something that still seems so far-off and foreign to Zuko; something that Katara’s all too generous with bestowing.

It’s trust. Or at least, the gradual rekindling of it.

“I did mean what I said earlier, you know,” he eventually manages, having to look away in order to get the words out. “Thank you, Katara. For saving my life.”

Zuko misses the slow smile that takes hold of her features as the words settle into the space between them. But he definitely notices when she takes a seat once more on the shoreline, kicking off her shoes and letting the water skim the tips of her toes. He turns back to stare at her immediately, surprise evident in the shine of his eyes and the slight part of his lips. “Guess I’m going to have to add this to my nightly routine, huh? Walking the beach past midnight to make sure none of my old acquaintances carelessly drown. What a way to spend the summer.”

Katara misses the almost-smile that pulls at his lips as he settles into the sand beside her. “Tell me about it.”

And so she does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, this chapter was actually a lot harder to write than I thought it would be, lol. These two have a lot of history together, but I didn't want to reveal it all at the beginning because where'd the fun be in that? So I tried to hint at a couple of things that went on between them, but I'm not sure how well I succeeded or if I actually hinted at much of anything at all? LMAO. So your thoughts and comments on that would be highly appreciated!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support I've gotten so far on this story! It's been so much fun to write and plan out so far, and I hope that you're all enjoying it!


	3. a new normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change isn't easy but it's just another thing that Zuko has to work on. (A certain someone makes it a whole lot easier.)

Zuko shows up to his first day of work with a pair of oversized shades, shaggy, unkempt hair, and a nametag that says “Lee.” Jet stares at him in awe for a moment before shaking his head and telling him to “just stay in the fucking back, it’s _fine_ —and I am _not_ calling you Lee.”

(He does, but only because Iroh gives him one of those looks.)

It’s obvious by Zuko’s wide-eyed stare and absolute silence that he has no idea what he’s doing, even when he has a keyring of smoothie recipes fastened onto his pants and his uncle by his side to help with the plethora of orders that never seem to stop rushing in.

“... I thought you said there was a recent _downturn_ in profits.”

Iroh doesn’t even look away from the fruit he’s slicing when he shrugs. “Oh, we have! There’s a new shop that opened up last month and it’s _really_ stolen some of my customers.”

(Zuko pops his head out of the kitchen to note that there’s no sitting room left and that the line to order is _at least_ fifteen minutes long. And that it’s only 8 AM. So yeah, the business is _definitely_ in danger.)

It should be shocking to no one that Zuko’s never actually had a job before; for all the independence he’s craved over the past six years, his naive self had never worried too much about the financials of things—after all, even if he _is_ a spurned son and his father _is_ an awful shitstain on the asscrack of this Earth, certain appearances needed to be maintained, and that meant that he grew up on the dregs of an upper-class lifestyle in order to maintain said appearances. He’s never thought of himself as spoiled—not really, when the price for such a life was, quite literally, _scarring_ —but it’s not until he’s stood in the corner of the kitchen, totally lost and dumbfounded for over an hour that he realizes… Okay, so there’s _really_ no denying that he had, at the very least, a privileged upbringing.

He finds that—for this morning, at least—most of his job is comprised of pouring shakes into cups once the timer on the blender goes off and taking out the garbage when it gets full. Jet’s busy manning the counter and his uncle’s busy actually _making_ all of the drinks, and Zuko’s more impressed by their synergy than anything else.

“I could be more helpful if you’d teach me how to actually _do_ things,” he mumbles when placing a new batch of dairy products out on the counter to replace the empty cartons. “I promised you I’d work, and so that’s what I intend to do.”

“I was _going_ to teach you last night after we closed… But if memory serves me right, my dear nephew disappeared from the apartment and didn’t return until almost three in the morning.”

Zuko’s face flushes immediately, but Iroh just gives him another one of those knowing smiles.

“W-Well, you see, I was just—”

Iroh simply puts up a hand. “You don’t have to tell me now—or ever. Just as long as you always come back the next morning, my nephew.”

The kindness of his words burns him all the more—but not in a scornful way. Zuko doesn’t deserve his uncle.

“R-Right. Of course.”

* * *

Every night after that, right as the shop closes at around ten, Iroh teaches Zuko how to properly wash and dice and measure ingredients. It’s something that _should_ be simple—Agni, his uncle makes it look so _easy_ —but it certainly takes some getting used to. At around eleven, he’ll throw in the towel to shower and head out—but not before loudly ignoring the glittering smirk on his uncle’s features as the door shuts behind him.

Even though it’s a semblance of a routine, it’s still something new, something that he still needs to adjust to. And because it’s Zuko, adjusting can’t happen without a few flares of his temper making themselves known. Learning how to make the perfect iced tea or coconut shake is no different, and even when Zuko growls and grimaces and curses about how stupid the blender is, Iroh never seems to lose his cool. He just quietly puts his hand on his nephew’s back, waits for the moment to pass, and then offers an understanding smile when the flurry of mumbled apologies escapes Zuko’s lips. 

And as the nights go on, Iroh notices that Zuko begins to lose his temper less and less… While _also_ caring more and more about ending their lessons _exactly_ at eleven. Which, you know, just means that Iroh’s parting smile looks wiser and wiser as the week continues.

* * *

One afternoon, when Zuko’s practicing a banana-based smoothie recipe and uncle’s taking a break (read: short nap) upstairs, Jet breaks the silence between them.

“Alright. This has been bothering me for a while so I _have_ to ask.”

They’ve been working together for a couple of days now, but the conversations they’ve shared have all been brief and limited to their work. If Zuko could have his way, he’d never _actually_ have to speak to his coworker, and he’s sure that Jet’s only censoring himself at all out of respect for Iroh. He thinks back to their first encounter with one another, and he can’t help but turn the scarred side of his face away from the other—a quiet form of bracing himself for the inevitable.

“Why _Lee_?”

“... What?”

Jet, who had been busy wiping down a counter, stops what he’s doing to give Zuko an incredulous sort of look—as though his question had already been pretty straightforward enough and so he’s stupid for making him rephrase it. Zuko’s completely unphased by this—because why would he care what _Jet_ thinks of him? Ha, _no way_.

(The scar shit’s different, alright?)

“I mean, of all the names you could’ve picked, why would you go with something so _obviously_ basic? Or, you know, why do you even _need_ to go by an alias anyway?”

Zuko huffs a little, taking mild offense at Jet’s evident lack of taste. “I don’t want to be recognized,” he manages through grit teeth.

“Right, by any of our middle-aged consumer groups. Because they would _absolutely_ recognize you and they would _absolutely_ care.”

“Well I’m sure that _someone_ would—and I guess you haven’t caught on yet but I’m _trying_ to start over.”

Jet just raises a skeptical brow and deadpans: “By working part-time in your uncle’s beachside shake shack, on an island that your family _basically_ owns at this point.”

“... Yes.”

The brunet lets out a low whistle of obvious judgment as he slaps the rag back onto the countertop. “Full offense, but that’s one of the _dumbest_ things I’ve ever heard.”

Zuko feels his face heat up at the insult, setting down the knife he had been cutting with to shoot the strongest glare he can muster at the other boy. Before he can get any words out though, Jet’s already turned his attention to grabbing a broom and sweeping the storefront without a care in the world. “But I’ve gotta hand it to you: the Jasmine Dragon’s probably the best place to hide out in plain sight—it’s not like anyone really comes here anymore.”

The other huffs, taking a deep breath to fully calm himself down before pouring his ingredients into a blender and hitting the on button. After a good forty seconds or so, he lifts the lid to stare at the mixture curiously. “I don’t know why you and my uncle keep saying that—the line was literally _out the door_ every day this week.”

“Yeah, for like. An hour, when all the older folks are getting ready to go to work. But ever since that Runaways opened up on the beach last month, we haven’t really seen much of anyone—no one _our_ age, at least.”

“Runaways?”

Jet shoots him another look that Zuko uses all his willpower to ignore. “Alright, so where’d you _really_ go the past few years? Under a fucking _rock_?” 

Yep. There goes Zuko’s temper. But instead of him flying off the handle, his emotions get channeled into the cup he’s now pouring his smoothie into. 

It’s a very angry smoothie.

“Runaways is only one of the biggest chain restaurants on the market and they’re basically everywhere now—I guess it was only a matter of time before they came here too.” He shrugs. “It’s where everyone goes now, and I can’t even blame them since the chicks that work there are pretty hot and—”

“Hey, do you want this?”

Jet stops in the middle of his sentence to face Zuko once more. The other boy’s holding out a drink for him and, if memory’s serving him right, it’s the very first drink he’s made on his own. Is it supposed to be an olive branch of some sort? Some symbol of friendship? He’s not sure, but he’s quick to school his surprised expression into something more akin to his signature smirk.

(It’s neither of those things, actually. Zuko’s just eager to get him to shut the hell up.)

“As long as it’s on the house,” he remarks, taking the offered drink without waiting for any sort of confirmation. He takes an eager sip, spits it out, and does _not_ bother censoring any of his profuse swearing.

So Zuko doesn’t bother hiding the shiteating grin on his lips.

* * *

Jet’s still a total asswipe, but he’s not an idiot. After mulling over his words, Zuko realizes the next day that he’s absolutely right: business booms in the early morning and late evening, when most of the middle-ages regulars are heading out to work or returning home. The afternoons—so the _majority_ of the day, really—are boring as hell. Jet’s right: they don’t have much of a young demographic _at all._ At first, Zuko had seen the emptiness as more of a prolonged, peaceful respite; now that he’s more aware of what’s actually going on, he can see why it’s a reason for concern.

Still, one of the good things about an empty shop means that Zuko’s become more comfortable actually moving around it—whether it be wiping down furniture or staring at the chalkboard creations on the walls, he’s finally become more willing to leave the kitchen and actually _see_ the restaurant he’s working in. 

It’s kinda nice.

Until, you know, he comes back inside from throwing out the trash to see Jet lounging on one of the counter stools, playing with _Zuko’s_ phone. Before he even has the chance to react, Jet explains himself with all the nonchalance in the world: “Some chick named Azula called—said to tell you that she doesn’t appreciate _Zuzu_ ignoring her. Is she your girlfriend or something?”

Zuko’s annoyance quickly morphs into surprise and then full-on agitation as he snatches his phone out of the other boy’s grip. “She’s my _sister_ , dumbass.”

“Oh right, sorry— _I’m_ the dumbass for assuming someone like you’d even _have_ a girlfriend.” 

Too busy glancing at his messages and wondering what Azula wants from him, all Zuko can do is fire back a lame: “Like you’re one to talk.”

“I’ve had _plenty_ of girlfriends, thanks.”

“Sure, Jet. _Sure._ ”

With his pride on the line like this, it’s probably only natural for the brunet to get as defensive as he does. “It’s _true_ ! Remember that girl you used to be best friends with, back when we were kids? I dated her for a whole _month_.”

This catches Zuko’s attention. He glances up from his phone with a look of slight disbelief.

“Katara?”

The proud smirk on Jet’s face is answer enough. “Oh, so you _really_ remember her then.” He already knows he’s won when Zuko simmers at the remark. “She was head over heels for me, you know—I practically had her wrapped around my finger. If her dumb brother wasn’t so _annoying_ , we would’ve—“

“She broke up with you, didn’t she.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact.

Jet’s eyes widen and he sputters and that’s already answer enough. “No, it was _mutual_ and—“

Zuko hides the knowing smirk in the hem of his sleeve as he returns his focus back onto his phone.

“Right.”

* * *

Ever since that first night, Zuko and Katara have made it a daily habit to meet one another on the beach. It’s almost funny how easy it had been for them to fall back into that pattern of seaside waiting, pointed jesting, and idle staring: at the sea, at the moon, and—when they think the other isn’t looking—at each other. 

It’s different from their time as children of course. The sun no longer watches over them on the sand, nor do the rest of their childhood friends. But it would be strange if things were exactly the same as they had been before, if they had pretended like nothing changed at all. The differences are quiet, poignant little things that they’re each acutely aware of. And yet bringing up the past is something they just don’t do—not explicitly, at least. That’s one of their very few rules.

Sometimes he gets there first and other times she does. But every time they get there, they choose to focus on things that are more recent: how he had missed Katara’s graduation ceremony by just a single week, how more and more tourists have begun to come to the island and how they grow more and more entitled as time goes by, how working definitely sucks (Zuko has to pretend that he can’t relate, but he really does agree) but at least his family gives out decent benefits to their part-time workers, how Katara will be leaving at summer’s end to officially begin her medicinal studies abroad. Zuko doesn’t like to talk much about himself—and Katara’s kind enough not to pry—but sometimes he’ll share a snarky story about his sister and they’ll both pretend that Azula wouldn’t murder them if she caught wind of what they were doing.

On this night in particular, Zuko has half a mind to comment about a certain ex-boyfriend (“So… _Jet_ , huh?”) but manages to bite his tongue. Instead, he asks what she’ll miss the most about the island once she finally leaves it, and when she turns to look at him—moonlight reflecting off the droplets on her skin and eyes already looking distant and far-off and thoughtful—her answer is immediate.

“The people, of course. It's got to be the people.”

Zuko finds that he couldn’t agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh, i'm so sorry for this delayed chapter! the past week or so has been super busy for me, so it was difficult to find any time to write. ironically enough, i had intended for this chapter to be a quick update since it's more of a montage than anything else, but evidently life had other plans!
> 
> still, i hope that this was an enjoyable update to read! i had a lot more fun writing jet than i thought i would, so he might make a couple more appearances than what my outline has planned, aha
> 
> as always, feedback of any form is highly appreciated! thank you so much for reading. <3


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